


Seventeen

by taranoire



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 06:22:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1335283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy happens upon Jean Havoc flirting with Ed at a bar and it goes about as well as you would expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seventeen

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "I'm craving some jealous!Roy and some Havoc/Ed. So how about Roy’s been bar hopping/is drunk and he sees Ed and Havoc leave a bar together and Ed is drunk and flirty with Havoc and Roy gets so fucking jealous." From karasuya on tumblr. I hope that it meets expectations!

Over the years Roy has become a master at detecting subtleties in human behavior. It’s second-nature to him to gauge the emotions of those around him, searching for weakness, threat, invitation.

There’s the vague, polite smile of disinterest that tells him a date is not going to end in a sex-warm bed. The cold and focused stare across a table that tells him he is despised, objectified, by older and more decorated men. There are the puzzling inquiries about his personal life (“You really aren’t looking for a wife, are you Mustang?”) and handshakes that linger far too long for his liking that fill him with a deep sense of dread. 

This is one of the only places he can get away from all of that: a bar that’s nice enough to wear polished shoes, casual enough to order single malt whiskey without disapproval. He can forget about how poisonous and manipulative he can be, how many lives are on the line, just who knows what about which of his loved ones, if attraction to a subordinate is such a bad thing if he treats him carefully. If he loves him with everything he has. 

They’ve been in a strange kind of relationship for several months now. It started because Edward was painfully seductive without meaning to be and Roy had no control over himself.

Edward had wanted him enough to lie naked and vulnerable with his arms slung around his neck, soft in his ear, wanted him enough to beg him for more again and again. Wanted him enough to have sleepy conversations with him early in the morning; to kiss him in the dark and squeeze his hand and put up false walls when they were no longer alone.

Roy wants to believe that Edward’s increased presence in his life (mostly his bed, and Roy can smell him in the sheets for days afterward) is a good thing. But thinking about him, especially when the distance between them is great, does nothing but cause him anguish. Because Edward is too good. Too young. Too—everything. 

At any moment Edward could slip through his fingers like sand.

He is halfway through his second glass, staring into the deep amber, when he hears a familiar voice among clinking mugs and the sharp clack of billiard balls. 

"Yeah, just got off the train. I’m freezing my ass off. It’s not like I needed a coat way down there, you know? Don’t laugh at me, asshole, you would forget your nose if it wasn’t attached to your face." 

Fullmetal isn’t supposed to be back in town until tomorrow morning. Apparently he decided that a bar was a better alternative to checking in with his commanding officer. The deception is unnecessary, and offensive. 

Roy is grateful the dive isn’t very well-lit. He shifts the angle of his stool so that he can look around, searching for a large suit of armor or a bright red, gaudy coat. He finds neither, just a shock of golden-blond hair on the other side of the room.

Roy takes small details into account. His subordinate and lover is dressed in a tight black t-shirt Roy has never seen, and his face is warm with energy and inebriation. There’s a glass of something clasped in his slender silver hand that matches his eyes. He’s not used to being out in the open, not used to just doing things for fun, and Roy hesitates to call him shy but he’s exhibiting all of the signs. 

Quiet smile, eyes that graze the floor too often to be natural, his subdued choice of attire when everything else about him is so flashy. In other circumstances he might be a gorgeous wallflower, mysterious and nervous but brimming with hidden power. 

If Roy was another man, another woman, he would see Edward as easy prey and throw himself into conversation with him. He would think screwing him would be as simple as luring him into a dark corner, complimenting his exotic features and offering to refill his glass. Even if none of the people in this bar know who Edward Elric is, they will have noticed him standing there as intoxicating and as golden as aged liquor. 

And if it was a stranger talking to Edward, Roy would not feel threatened, because Edward is an intelligent young thing and would not toss himself like scrap at just anyone. What concerns him is that the man is familiar: 2nd Lieutenant Jean Havoc. 

They’re standing at a distance too intimate for a working relationship. Jean is leaning against a wall, surprisingly confident in his body language despite how much he complains about women finding him inattentive. He gazes at Edward with the kind of fragile confidence a teenager might have when confronted with an exceptionally beautiful person. 

(Edward is many things, but among them, he is nice to look at. Like a fine painting, or a doll. I would rather see him destroyed, burned, than in the hands of another and tonight is no exception.) 

Fullmetal laughs at a joke Roy doesn’t hear (behind the bar, a young tapper breaks a bottle of wine) and then takes a sip of his drink, face screwing up at the strong taste. The colonel wonders why he bothers. It is absurd to think that he means to impress Lieutenant Havoc of all people.

Jean snickers. “Problems getting it down, Fullmetal?” 

"Brandy," Edward mutters. "Fuckin’ awful but it gets the job done." 

"I’m guessing there’s something you want to forget about." 

"Temporarily," Edward says, forcing himself to take another drink, this one a little more generous. "Forgetting for a few hours is okay. You can’t run away from bad shit forever, it just comes back stronger and blacker. But this—I dunno, makes it easier to swallow." 

"So to speak." 

Roy Mustang, for all of his political nuances, had no idea his lover even drank, let alone was doing it habitually. This is his doing, his influence; maybe if Edward had never seen that this is his coping method, maybe if Edward hadn’t had to endure his drunken behavior and impulses—no. Fullmetal may not be an adult but he has adult problems and will have adult solutions. 

"I take it you’re forgetting something pretty heavy," Jean says. 

Roy already knows exactly what that ‘something’ is. The blond was ordered out to a city skirting Amestris’ border to oversee and develop a stronger military presence. A civilian rebelled and took four soldiers hostage. They were dead by the time Ed got to them, murdered execution-style with sacks over their heads. There had been an altercation. 

"Nah," Ed says. 

After such a significant trauma, one would think he would want to be protected, Roy thinks coolly. As it stands Fullmetal seems far more interested in fraternizing with his lieutenant and splurging on liquor like some drunken whore. 

(Does he not have any self-respect?)

Roy downs the rest of his drink, and then waves to the bartender expectantly. 

Jean sets his beer down on a table. It is a cheap, unrefined brand in a glass bottle. “I know what’ll take your mind off of the bad shit.” He grins and jerks his head towards the pool table. “Play a round with me.” A demand. 

Edward’s eyes widen and he looks at the men gathered around the table with something like fear, strange considering how competitive he can get. Roy takes note of this: Fullmetal doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Jean. He’s showing restraint. “That is the worst idea you’ve ever had.” 

"No, my worst idea was dating a homunculus, though you’re free to think whatever you want.” 

Jean smirks and gently pries the blond’s glass out of his hands, not flinching as he brushes cool metal fingers. People tend to recoil from Ed when they see his metal limbs out of fear or revulsion. The angelic illusion of a doe-eyed blond is shattered.

That Jean is tactful about the issue pisses Roy off, because Jean doesn’t understand Edward the way he does—intimately, carnally, on a level deeper than human tissue. 

The man is obviously only touching him that way, so carefully, because he has discovered it’s the easiest way to get Edward Elric to spread his legs. Worse, Ed is not exactly rebuffing him. 

”Come on, it’s not a contest,” Havoc says. “I’ll help you out. I’ve seen you in action, boss, you’ve got great coordination at least on your feet. How hard could it be for you to poke some balls in a hole?” 

(Of course he has great coordination. He’s a master of three distinct fighting styles and can draw a perfect circle in one attempt. You don’t need to undress him with your eyes to figure that out. )

"Fighting is easy, it’s a dance, there’s fluidity to it, but this is—different," Edward says, looking slightly lost without the brandy. "You know what? Fine. It’s not like I came here to just stand around, so you better fucking play nice with me." 

———

Roy watches the game (if you could call it that, because it’s mostly a lot of fumbling and drunken cursing on Ed’s part) with a mixture of emotions he can’t quite place. He can pick up on the feelings of others, but his own brain is another matter entirely. 

The alcohol starts seeping into his blood and the boy lets loose, no longer edgy but easygoing and pleasant and soft, and Roy aches for him, for his warm body in his arms, in his bed. Ed smiles and has fun even though he is, in layman’s terms, awful at playing this game. But it doesn’t matter because he’s goddamn beautiful and everyone in this room is aware of it. 

"Short stuff is new, huh?" a stranger says with a grin, face deep rouge from drunkenness. He’s been staring at Ed since the two soldiers joined the table, part revulsion and part desire; Roy imagines it’s uncomfortable to be faced with someone so damaged, and so strange, and so naive. 

"He’s a quick study," Jean comments. 

"Quicker than you," Ed says.

"I’ve been hustling for ten years, brat.” 

"Wow, pardon me for not hanging out in dive bars when I was seven." 

"Knowing you and your brother, I’m honestly shocked you weren’t." 

"If there were any in town, we might have."

The red-faced stranger does the math in his head, then grins lewdly at the lieutenant. “Seventeen, huh?” 

Jean either ignores his inquiry or doesn’t hear it, and Edward is far too invested in lining up his shot to care. He misses, naturally, and for a moment Roy Mustang considers leaving them alone. Maybe he’s being paranoid; maybe Ed really is just stressed and wants to have some fun. Besides, Jean is trustworthy, would never behave inappropriately with a seventeen-year-old subordinate—

"Lemme help you," Jean says softly, moving to stand behind the blond. Edward rolls his eyes but allows the lieutenant to rest one hand on his slim hip, the other grazing up his waist and across his arm, steadying his aim. 

"You’re putting too much force into it," Jean says to him, close to his ear, and Roy sees Edward shudder. The blond’s amber eyes go hazy with something other than brandy, and he misses his next shot even with Jean’s coaching, trembling and distracted. 

"Almost," Jean whispers. 

"I fucked up," Edward says. He shrugs the man off and starts absently chalking the tip of his cue.

"You’ll get the hang of it."

Jean won’t stop staring at him, eyes grazing his soft lips over. And over. And over. Edward’s face is red and when he notices the lieutenant’s attention, he avoids looking back. 

"Short stuff can have a redo," the red-faced man says, "since he’s new an’ all." 

"I don’t need your fuckin’ pity. I’ll wait my turn like everyone else." 

Jean Havoc doesn’t know that Roy is involved with Ed. No one knows, because that would unearth an unholy amount of scrutiny and complications that neither has time for. For that, he might be able to forgive him eventually, but right now his thoughts are like white-hot knives jamming into his brain and all he can think about is Edward’s body and the things his lieutenant wants to do to it. 

"God damn, lieutenant, at least I can say you’re on my team,” Ed says with a smirk when Jean takes his turn. 

"I’m glad I’m good at something you’re not, kid." 

The lieutenant and the major haven’t even touched each other, not really, but the signs are all there and Jean keeps looking at him and Edward knows it and is inviting it with every tilt of his head, with every flutter of his eyes. He’s playing a game now and it isn’t fucking pool. Is the blond even aware of how seductive he can be? 

"Edward, I bet you five hundred cenz I win the game with this shot," Jean says, leaning over the pool table and about to strike. 

Ed laughs. “One thousand and you’re on.” 

That’s how it started, after all. Edward strutted into his office with damp hair and tired eyes and careless posture, sunk into a chair and nonchalantly propositioned him with as much flair as a rock (“I need to be fucked, and I need you to do it”). But Roy had fallen for it, somehow, had breathed him in and touched him and taken his virginity without pause. 

(One heartbeat at a time. In a quiet office streaked with sunset. Blood on the condom. Worth it.)

———-

"I just noticed," Jean says, pointing at Edward with the same hand that is wrapped around the neck of a beer. The game is over, the cues are abandoned and the mood has changed, has taken on an air of heat. "Your hair is down." 

Edward appears to just notice this, too, running his metal hand through it in a self-conscious attempt to smooth it down. There’s no need. It’s always perfect, even unkempt. It feels like silk and smells like honey. “Forgot to braid it.” 

(He’s a fucking liar.)

Jean tries to seem polite, but behind that facade are simpler desires. He probably longs to brush Edward’s hair out of his eyes and caress his skin and hold his face and kiss his soft lips, like Roy has done a hundred times before, like he will do again, because Edward is his and will never know the touch of another man, will never leave him for cigarette smoke and blue eyes. His. 

"You should do it more often. Makes you look less like you’re about to go cause mayhem." 

"Please, I always look like I’m about to cause mayhem." Edward finds his brandy and takes a slow drink before putting it back on the table. "In fact, there’s about a ninety-nine percent chance I could knock you down on that floor before you noticed your feet left the ground." 

"I’m sure you could, but not if you’re shitfaced. Lay off the booze for tonight, kid, you’ll thank me in the morning." 

"I’m not twelve." 

"Trust me, I’m aware of that."

"Are you really?" Edward murmurs, and Roy doesn’t like the way his eyes glimmer mischievously. He’s looking at Jean the way he looks at Roy when they’re in bed together, lips slightly parted. He wants to be touched. He wants to be fucked like a whore. Probably face down in some seedy hotel, hair in the lieutenant’s fist, moans muffled by the sheets between his teeth. 

(Please, Ed, please don’t do this, don’t hurt me this way… I cannot bear the thought of losing someone else I love… ) 

The lieutenant sets down the empty bottle and stares at him, a subtle fluttering in the hollow of his throat. Roy realizes that, consciously or not, the man is trying to deduce whether Edward would be a suitable way to get his dick wet. “I’m aware that you’ve grown up, Ed, anyone can see that. Just look at you. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m partly responsible for the bullshit you get into, understand?” 

"What if that bullshit involved you?" 

Jean laughs, and starts to light a cigarette. ”That entirely depends on what that was.” 

Edward notices the shiny silver lighter and snatches it out of the lieutenant’s hand (he’s like a child, really, amused by toys and other playthings). He smiles and starts to fiddle with it, clicking the lid, amused at the tiny tear of a flame.

"Sometimes the bad stuff gets to be too much," Edward mutters bitterly, snapping the lid of the lighter. "But I mean. If there was ever a time when I needed—to get away from it all. To just let loose and escape for a couple hours. Would you ever… wanna help me with that?" 

Jean gently captures his wrist, the unlit cigarette in his mouth saying what his eyes can’t. Edward goes still, swallowing tightly, then slips the lighter into the lieutenant’s front trouser pocket. They look at each other for an uncomfortable period of time, and Jean is back to staring at his lips again. 

He takes the cigarette out of his mouth, reaches to brush Edward’s hair out of his face. Roy’s stomach clenches tightly. 

He kisses him. And if it were just that, only that, Roy might be able to recover his thoughts. But it’s a slow kiss, soft and steady, and he can see the lieutenant’s shoulders droop in utter satisfaction, as if he has been wanting and waiting to kiss and touch Ed for longer than tonight. 

Edward stands still, is passive, but his eyes are closed and he allows the moment to take place, allows himself to be used. He gives a little whimper that Roy can hear from his seat and then breaks away, cuts it off, looking more lost and confused than he’s ever been. 

“I’m really not a kid anymore,” he says. “Seventeen might not be old enough for a lot of people but let’s face it, there’s not a chance in hell I’m gonna see my twenties. So why not live it, you know?”

Jean blinks at him.

Then notices how close they are, realizes that they are alone together in public and are decorated officers, that they do not want to draw unnecessary attention to themselves. He steps back, a very thin sheen of sweat dappling his skin. 

"I’m gonna get another drink. Sit tight?"

Edward says nothing, looks slightly puzzled, and nods his head. The lieutenant does not, in the end, go towards the bar but towards the men’s bathroom. Predictable, disgusting. He will have a hand around his erection for the next ten minutes at most. 

Roy downs the last drops of his drink and then eases the stool back, the sound grating. He will not be able to have a coherent thought, will not feel safe again, will not be able to breathe again until he has Edward back in his home and his bed.


End file.
